


My Home is Your Head

by CorvidFightClub



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Implied abuse, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Mouth gag, Prompt Fill, Soul Mate AU, jack morrison is an asshole, mccree also starts out Not Nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFightClub/pseuds/CorvidFightClub
Summary: Jack had Genji tailed when he went to Hanamura to talk to Hanzo and has Overwatch pick up the elder Shimada while Genji is away in Nepal. McCree bites off more than he bargains for when he agrees to play Bad Cop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill from 2femme on tumblr that blew itself up into its own fic. Why. I have too many. Yet here we are.

“Who’s speakin’ Japanese?” McCree asked, twisting his pinkie in one ear. 

 

Morrison, Ana, and the prisoner all looked at him like he’d sprouted another head. 

 

“Jesse, nobody is speaking Japanese,” Ana said.

 

McCree nodded in the prisoner’s direction. “You sure that gag works? Could be him.” It was driving him up a wall, hearing a voice nobody was acknowledging. Last he checked, McCree’s hearing wasn’t so great on account of gunfire and loud engines. Wasn’t something only he could be hearing. 

 

The prisoner--Hanzo--gave him a glare that could peel paint. Hanzo typed with one hand on the small holopad they’d given him, the words appearing on the forcefield barrier across the front of his cell. 

 

YOU WOULD KNOW IF IT DID NOT.

 

They’d taken Hanzo in after Genji had left Hanamura and fucked off to Nepal to give himself some space. McCree wasn’t convinced Genji knew Morrison had him tailed. Didn’t think Genji would’ve signed on for it if he was trying to get Hanzo to come to Overwatch by himself. Knowing the situation, it was probably better Morrison assumed Genji wasn’t thinking clearly about things. Safer for everybody involved. He’d given the extraction team a good chase until they’d sent Tracer in to catch up with him. After that Hanzo had come along, pretty as you please despite the cuffs. The only thing he’d balked at was the gag. That one also came from Morrison. He wasn’t too keen on Hanzo summoning dragons in the middle of base.

 

It struck McCree how much Hanzo looked like Genji when they were in Blackwatch. Glaring eyes and half his face covered by smooth metal. 

 

WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?

 

Shifting his weight, McCree hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Not sure. You tell me,” he said. 

 

“Ignore the cowboy, Mister Shimada,” Morrison interrupted. “You address Ana or myself. We’ve got questions for you.”

 

Hanzo’s gaze went cold. I SEE NO REASON TO SPEAK TO EITHER OF YOU. I AM HERE FOR GENJI. I WILL SPEAK TO HIM.

 

“Genji took personal leave. We don’t know when he’s due to return,” Ana hedged. “I suggest you reconsider.”

 

I WILL WAIT FOR HIM. Hanzo finished typing and dropped the holopad on the single chair in his cell. He turned his back to them and sat cross-legged on the cell cot.

 

A muscle in Morrison’s jaw ticked. Ana caught his arm before he could say anything else and motioned them both to follow her out of the cellblock. 

 

Once they had two sets of closed doors behind them, Ana ushered them into a small meeting room. “How far are you willing to go on this, Jack?” she asked, crossing her arms and watching Morrison as he paced the front of the room, shoving a rolling chair out of his way with one foot. 

 

“I--” Morrison paused, pointed at McCree. “Have you been debriefed?” 

 

McCree shrugged and dropped himself into the of the chairs. “Much as I ever am,” he said, putting his heels up on the table, slouching back into the chair with a sigh. “God, I hate these chairs. Full of disappointment, each and every one of ‘em.”

 

“Now you are. Welcome to the fold,” Morrison muttered, taking out his comm. “I’m sending you the file. Talon’s been courting Elder Shimada in there, which is why I had him picked up. I can’t just let that kinda firepower walk over to the other side.”

 

Ana raised her eyebrows, “Locking him in a cell isn’t exactly endearing us to him, either.”

 

Jack snorted. “Can’t say I’m particularly worried about the feelings of a yakuza boss.”

 

“Former yakuza boss,” Ana corrected, fixing him with a steady gaze. “And you should also worry about Genji’s feelings.”

 

“I’ll cross that bridge when he gets back from Nepal.”

 

“Am I talking to Jack Morrison or some vigilante right now?”

 

“Jack Morrison died of heartbreak. You’re stuck with the vigilante,” Morrison said.

 

McCree cleared his throat. “So. Asides from keepin’ Angry McBitchface away from Talon, what’re we hopin’ to get outta this situation?” he asked.

 

“Any information Hanzo has about Talon and its movements in Japan, plus anything else we can get out of him. The Shimadas weren’t the worst and only families in the area. I’m sure he’s got enough info to put away half of East Asia.” 

 

“Half of East Asia isn’t isn’t crime families,” Ana deadpanned. 

 

“You know what I mean.”  
  


“Maybe I would if you’d speak outside of your American generalizations and use your goddamned words, Soldier,” Ana growled. The hint of drill sergeant in her voice made Jack’s back straighten. 

 

McCree would’ve taken offense if he didn’t know for certain Ana would Judo throw him through the meeting room door. “Okay, information,” McCree drawled. He picked at a spot of old paint on his jeans. “Sounds like you need a Bad Cop.”

 

Morrison sighed through his nose, his shoulders lowering a fraction. “Are you volunteering?”

 

McCree gave him a crooked smile. “I am if you can still pull off Golden Boy.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCree is not a nice person. Some violence and implicit threatening.

McCree yawned, cracked his jaw, then let himself into the lower level of the lock-down facility. Recently started sounding like a bag of potato chips opening and Angela wanted him to see a proper dentist, but Lord knew there wasn’t a force of nature strong enough to get him in one of those creepy chairs. 

 

They’d given Hanzo the night to stew on his predicament. There was an art to this sorta thing. Give ‘em time to think, some choice interaction, then more time to overthink, get themselves in deep. Then they’d start to slip, come apart around the edges because being in solitary was getting to them. If Hanzo was any shade of smart, he’d know it and just give them what they wanted. 

 

Or maybe he wouldn’t. 

 

And maybe Soldier: 76 wouldn’t have the same problems with torture that Jack Morrison did.

 

McCree tapped the code into the door of the cellblock and walked through.

 

There was that voice again, low and husky, this time singing in Japanese. 

 

He paused, listening for a few breaths before continuing down the hallway, boots silent without their spurs. The singing stopped once he reached Hanzo’s cell. Hanzo was sitting on the floor next to the cot, back straight, his hands resting on his knees. His dark eyes followed McCree as he came to stand in front of the barrier. 

 

McCree pointed to the chair in Hanzo’s cell. “Perfectly good chair you could be sittin’ in. We ain’t savages.”

 

Hanzo stayed where he was, not even bothering to get the holopad keyboard. 

 

Shrugging, McCree said, “Suit yourself.” He walked along the front of the cell, in no hurry. “How’d you like the service so far? Cooks in the mess are pretty decent if not creative. I taught ‘em to make some mean chili.” 

 

Nothing but a cold stare.

 

McCree kept moseying in front of the cell, thumbs in his belt loops. “You might wanna take Morrison and Ana up on whatever deal they’re offering you. It’ll be kinder than whatever you’d get from proper law enforcement.”

 

Nothing.

 

McCree smiled sharp. “Or do you think you’re still some high-flutin’ feudal lord?”

 

Narrowing eyes.

 

“I see what you got going on in there,” McCree said, circling Hanzo’s person with a gesture of his fingers. “Traditional to the bone. Lost the only real family you had. Destroyed it your own damn self, and then you look back on it and you go a little mad. Not all off your rocker, no, you’re too disciplined for that. Just enough to convince yourself that maybe those ancestors had it right, and you wanna please ‘em---boy, do you wanna please ‘em--- ‘cause they’re the only ones left paying attention.”

 

He had Hanzo’s ear now. Could see it in how his breathing changed, the look in his eyes no longer impassive. McCree had his cattle-prod close to a nerve. Adjusting his hat, McCree went on, “So you grab your Bug-Out Bag and hightail it, painting yourself as a ronin fightin’ against an unjust ruling family that took everything from you.”

 

A soft  _ tch  _ from behind the gag and a glare like Disbelief and Murder had a lovechild.

McCree made a show of walking through the cell barrier, pulling on his gloves as he went. He’d asked Athena for permissions before he’d come down here. Hanzo jumped to his feet faster than McCree thought possible, then reminded himself this was Genji’s brother. He smiled at Hanzo again. Not the wide, lazy one most of the new Overwatch was used to, but the one that showed a thin, white line of his teeth and didn’t reach his eyes. Blackwatch smile. 

 

“Doesn’t matter. You still killed your brother.”

 

Hanzo threw a punch at him and McCree thought he heard the air whistle as he blocked it, pain shooting from his forearm and down his shoulder. Damn if Hanzo didn’t hit like a Peterbilt. Even his hand stung. He could hear Japanese again, this time in a blistering growl as Hanzo did his best to make McCree eat his teeth. It took longer than McCree’s pride was okay with to pin Hanzo to the wall face-first and keep him there. 

 

_ Fucking American. Get it over with. If my brother has chosen this, at least let my death be quick.  _

 

Same voice, no longer in Japanese. Not muffled by the gag. Hell, Hanzo’s jaw wasn’t even moving, just glaring at him with dark brown eyes.

 

_ What does he stare at? Is he a lunatic? _

 

McCree froze. Swallowed. “I ain’t a lunatic,” he said.

 

Color left Hanzo’s face. He’d stopped struggling and was now just...staring at McCree over his shoulder like the Devil himself stood behind him. 

 

_ How is he doing this?  _ Flickers of blue light. Scales. Roaring in an endless spiral. Panic.

 

McCree shoved himself away, backing up a couple paces. He patted his head down, his hat, his throat. How could he hear--

 

_ You don’t know either.  _ Hanzo stood facing him now, his back to the wall. He held out a hand,  _ Wait, do not-- _

 

“Athena!” McCree shouted. The AI flickered to life on the different UIs in the room.

 

“Agent McCree?”

 

“I need a full sweep of this hallway and one for the guest. Code yellow. I’m compromised.”

 

New barrier walls shot up around Hanzo, making him startle back against the wall. McCree fast-walked out of the cell, headed out the door at the end of the cellblock and locked the door behind him, leaning against it with a cold feeling in his gut.

 

Athena’s logo appeared on the doorpad. “I’m informing Winston of your location. Hold on, Agent McCree.”

 

“Ping Angela, too.” McCree took his hat off and scratched rough fingers through his hair. 

 

“Do you have a message to relay?”

 

“Yeah, the Shimada is in  _ my fucking head.” _


	3. Chapter 3

Mercy pulled down his eyelid, shining a light into McCree’s eye until he saw splashes of green in his vision. “Any headaches? Nausea?”

 

“Nope,” McCree responded over the hum of the bioscanner. 

 

Mercy raised her eyebrows at him“Any prolonged contact with Mister Shimada?”

 

Shifting uncomfortably, McCree sighed through his nose. “We tussled,” he admitted. “Just the once.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. Stared at the ceiling instead.

 

Mercy crossed her arms. “Does Jack know about this?”

 

“Sanctioned it himself. Good Cop, Bad Cop and all that.”

 

She snatched up her holopad and started typing quickly, eyebrows drawn down. “Why did you agree to it?” she asked, her voice flat with anger. “This isn’t Blackwatch, McCree.”

 

“So you think y’all are better than we were? Glad you finally admitted it.”

 

“Don’t you do that.” Mercy stuck a gloved finger in his face. “I will stab you in the mouth with biggest needle I have. Blackwatch was...what we thought we needed.” She set down the holopad and rubbed her face. “We have a chance to do better this time. That’s what I’m trying to say,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

 

“If you say so, Miss Ziegler.” 

 

“You don’t deserve that accent.”

 

McCree grunted and tipped his hat over his face. He put a hand over the port in his arm where the prosthetic connected to the rest of him, cut off just above the elbow. The doc was running diagnostics on it at Wintson’s request. He’d always felt strange about Mercy seeing him with it off. Like she was seeing him naked, and not in the way that made a man feel admired. 

 

The scanner beeped and Mercy rolled her chair over to her computer. “Ready to come out of the oven. Hm,” She said, scrolling through the read-out. 

 

McCree picked his head up, echoing, “Hm?”

 

“Asides from your inhuman ability to smoke like a stack and somehow not damage your lungs, all your systems look normal. Nerves are fine, vitamin levels are deplorable but that’s not new.” She ignored his sputtering and continued, “Most importantly your brain activity is just what I’d expect. No abnormalities, no interruptions in patterning. No foreign tech on you anywhere.”

 

“What about ol’ Lefty over there?” McCree asked, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the table. 

 

Mercy pulled up the diagnostics interface and gave a long-suffering sigh. “You should really consider letting me replace the ligaments--you treat that thing horribly.”

 

“Miss Ziegler.”

 

“Fine, fine. Nothing new or exciting there, either.” She gestured to the results when he walked over to her. “See for yourself.”

 

McCree put his hand on his hip and sucked at the inside of his cheek. “Well damn.”

 

“You’re sure you heard a voice? Just one?”

 

He nodded. “Just the one. Spoke in both English and Japanese. Heard it clear as a bell.”

 

Mercy looked thoughtful. “Was it telling you to do anything?” She asked.

 

“No, just sounded like somebody thinkin’ out loud.” McCree frowned at her. “You think I gone off the deep end, don’t ya?” he accused.

 

Mercy shrugged. “I don’t have enough evidence to say one way or the other, but I think you should consider seeing a specialist. Mr. Singh is a very good psychologist if you’d give him a chance.”

 

“Pass,” McCree said. He picked up his prosthetic arm from the table, blew on the connection, then slid it back into place and held it until he felt the mechanism lock. Brief pain shot down his fingers as the synthetic nerves came online. A lot less hassle than the old ports used to be. Those hurt something fierce. 

 

“Fine.” Mercy rolled her eyes. “In the meantime, I also suggest staying away from Mister Shimada.” She crossed her arms, blue eyes serious. “Jack and I are going to...have words about this whole thing.”

 

McCree tipped his hat, collected some of his test results for Winston, and beat a hasty retreat. No sum of money would’ve gotten him to be Jack Morrison right then.

 

-

 

Winston adjusted his glasses on his nose, checking over the results McCree handed him. “Voices, huh.”

 

“Yessir,” McCree said. “But just the one.” 

 

“Have you checked the security footage?”

 

McCree stiffened. Damn did he feel green. “Not yet. Was kinda concerned about the state of my head and walkin’ around with a hack in me somewhere.” He poked at one of the succulents on Winston’s desk. “You should put some water out. Dry as a bone in here.”

 

Winston made a distracted huffing noise, then looked over at McCree as he set the test results on his desk. “Looks like Angela was pretty thorough. I’m not seeing suspicious signatures. Whatever you experienced, it’s not exporting data or phoning home.” He folded his large hands, regarding McCree with kind yellow eyes and asked, “How are you feeling?”

 

Disarmed, McCree answered automatically, “Fine as frog hair, Winston.” He took his hat off and turned it around in his hands. Nervous habit. “Why you askin’?” He hated this part. Give him anger, a cuff on the ear any day rather than this.

 

“Just thought I’d check in with you. From the voice clip Athena sent, you sounded very unnerved. Do you feel any better seeing the test results?”

 

McCree slackened in irritation, slapping his hat against his thigh. “Jesus, Mary, an’ Joseph, I ain’t loose in the screws. I heard a voice. One. And it’s been around the Shimada crimelord we have cooling his heels in solitary. Either it’s some kinda new tech or...hell, I don’t know.” He shoved his hat back on his head. “But I ain’t nuts.”

 

“I wasn’t suggesting that,” Winston said. He picked up the test results again. “I’ll continue to review these and see if I can come up with some other tests we can run. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

 

Shrugging, McCree admitted, “I don’t rightly know.”

 

“I’m going to ask Morrison to put you on light duty until we settle this.”

 

“It’ll have to wait till we’re back from Berlin. We’re runnin’ short with Genji on leave.”

 

Winston sighed. “Fine. But light duty after that. Think of it like a little vacation.”

 

-

  
  


McCree’s inbox blew up an hour later with emails between Jack and Mercy. He’d glanced through them and decided it was best to keep his nose out of this, no matter how many times they CC’d him. Words like “fines”, “Geneva Conventions”, and “federal law” gave him hives. He put his comm on silent mode as he pored over Athena’s footage of him wrestling with Hanzo earlier, headphones pressed to his ears, following every move to try and find the moment Shimada planted something on him, hit him in the head, said something that the mic would’ve picked up. He gave up after watching the same loop five times, listening to himself on the audio feed say he wasn’t a lunatic to nobody. 

 

The Berlin mission rolled around. McCree had spent all the lead-up either at the range or helping Lena kick the Orca’s tires and doing his damnedest to avoid getting between Morrison and Dr. Ziegler. Jack had asked McCree for the short version of what happened and let it drop like cowpie, much as it stuck in McCree’s craw. He wasn’t good at leaving things unfinished.

 

Buckled into his seat, McCree crossed his arms, hat over his eyes, and tried napping while they were enroute. He’d taken Mercy’s advice and stayed away from the Shimada. No weird voices, Japanese or otherwise. He’d take it. 

Halfway into a dream, his comm buzzed in his pocket. McCree fished for it and swiped open the screen. Torbjorn. He’d messaged the engineer earlier, asking about that muzzle they’d put on the Shimada and what went into building it. 

 

**Torbjorn:** _ hackjob. morrison had come asking for it last minute. Nothing much special about it. It is made out of the same metals and plastics as standard armors with some padding. I am not proud of it or its use. _

 

 **McCree:** _no tech so you can hear him?_

 

**Torbjorn** :  _ that would defeat the purpose. _

 

Rolling his eyes, McCree shoved his comm back onto his pocket. So much for that--

McCree grunted, thrown forward into his safety belt as the Orca pitched to one side and metal screaming behind him. 

 

Lena came over the comms, “Hold on to yer seats, ladies and gents! We’re taking heavy fire. I gotta put us down. Radioing for support.”

 

“Hell,” McCree growled. He eyed the extra seatbelt straps next to him and the door between him and Mei. He pulled it out as far as it would go and yelled into his comm, “Mei, get me that other seat belt. Throw me the end.”

 

“What are you trying to do?!” Mei yelled back.

 

“Return fire.”

 

Mei let herself hang against her own harness and started yanking out the seatbelt next to her as she could, then swung the metal end towards McCree. She watched him wrap both around his waist, saw the door, then she was on her own comm, “Morrison, blow the door open!”

 

“What?”

 

“Just do it!”

 

Morrison grappled with his rifle, couched himself up against the wall, then took out the door with two blasts to the hinges. 

 

Secure as he was going to get, McCree swung out into the open doorway suspended by the seatbelts, bracing his boots against the tipped floor and drawing his gun. The helicopter was close. Right where he needed them. He felt the heat in his eye, down his face. The sky went red with a burning gold sun, and he saw them all without seeing them, their heartbeats in his head as he looked down the site and fired. Dark blood splattered inside the windshield of the helicopter and it dipped away, slow, floundering. 

 

“Brace for impact!” Lena shouted. 

 

McCree tried to breathe and it made him wheeze out a pained sound instead. A dragging noise, then the sky was bright in his face. Morrison and his creepy visor dipped into his vision. “Can you hear me, McCree?”

 

“Yeah,” Jesse gritted out, slowly holstering his gun. 

 

Morrison was unwrapping what was left of the seatbelts from him. “Lucio’s coming. He’s almost done with Mei.”

 

“She okay?”

 

“Hit her head. Some bruises. She’ll be okay.”

 

McCree would believe it when he saw it. He closed his eyes, focused on keeping his breaths shallow. Morrison was unfastening his breastplate from the sound of it. McCree did his best to relax. Pain was nothing new. He’d lived hard and sometimes his body reminded him about it. Even as a little kid back in New Mexico, he’d wake up in the middle of the night hurting all over, then he’d walk into Mama’s room and she’d hold him and stroke his hair until it started getting better. A couple of her friends mentioned Fibro. Said if you got sick when you were real young, there’s a chance you’d get it. Wasn’t like they had the money to get him diagnosed proper, so he lived with it. Happened less as he got older. 

 

Lucio was there, talking to him, asking him questions and cracking open a bio emitter. McCree kept his eyes closed, answering him best he could, still smelling the musty cold breeze from his mother’s bedroom air conditioner. 

 

Morrison stayed in the area to do some recon, but the mission was considered a bust with most of them getting airlifted back to base for medical attention. They shipped McCree back first despite his protests. He got the worst of it by Lucio’s reckoning. By the time they’d landed, McCree was feeling stupid with painkillers. They were wheeling him to the medical ward when the gurney paused and Lucio jogged ahead to let Mercy know they were coming. McCree turned his head, saw through the glass window and the curtain not drawn all the way shut. Reinhardt standing next to the exam table. Hanzo sitting on it, his bare back criss-crossed with scars. Mercy looked uncomfortable about it, ignored the hell out of Reinhardt and instead payed attention to the words showing on a monitor as Hanzo typed them. 

 

McCree looked away. Wasn’t his business. Wasn’t his business. The gurney started moving again. Lucio got him set-up in a room with an IV and started cutting his shirt off. 

 

“Hey, s’my lucky shirt,” McCree complained. 

 

Lucio laughed. “Must be. You definitely shouldn’t have survived that stunt.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short, but at least there's Hanzo?

Seven. Eight.

 

Hanzo straightened his back and immediately slouched again when pain shot around his ribcage. He let his sore arm dangle loose at his side as he made another circuit of his cell.

 

Nine.

 

The blonde doctor had been thorough, her efforts genuine when she had run him through her tests. Nothing explained the sudden pain that had struck him earlier like a blow. The AI had informed his captors that he’d collapsed inexplicably. His first thought had been the cowboy drugging the rations they brought him three times a day, though he only ate two of them. Hunger kept him keen. Now it seemed a necessity, though the doctor had assured him nothing had been put in his food and no traces of drug had been found in his system. She had shown him the results of every test she had run, gesturing with her graceful hands. 

 

Hanzo mistrusted beauty. 

 

She had offered him painkillers while they worked to diagnose the problem, which he had declined. This was the sort of pain that would subside given time. He had to move constantly until then or else risk muscle cramps. 

 

Ten. 

 

He closed his eyes and measured his breath to his steps. Except for the hum of the cell barrier and the soft padding of his feet, the cellblock was silent. As an exile, solitude had nearly broken him at first, the tide of what he had been building behind him as he ran from the family threatening to crash down upon him those precious few moments he was safe. Then he had rebuilt himself, one piece at a time. He relearned to shoot a bow, to climb a wall, to meditate, not as Shimada but as himself. Something new and unfettered and fierce beyond measure. The only thing that had dulled him, dogged him, haunted him, had been Genji. So he returned again and again, no matter how far he traveled, back to the old castle where those memories pulled him. 

 

Then one day, that memory followed him there instead. Genji’s ghost inside a robotic body, speaking impossibility after impossibility. 

 

And now he was here, waiting for the ghost to return.

_ La Llorona, La Llorona… _

 

The words were faint, echoing through the wall like music played houses away.

 

Hanzo froze, waiting for the sound of a door opening, of footsteps coming closer. He turned, putting his back to the wall. Defending himself like this would be difficult at best. But a door never opened, and footsteps never came. 

 

_ Ay de mí, Llorona Llorona, _

_ Llorona, llévame al río... _

_ Tápame con tu rebozo, Llorona _

_ Porque me muero de frió… _

 

Moving carefully as he could, Hanzo sat on the edge of the cot. It was the cowboy’s voice, slow and melancholy. He understood not a word of it.  _ Where are you, cowboy?  _

 

_ What--damnation, go away. I’m on a mighty fine cocktail of drugs and don’t have time for this bullshit.  _

 

Hanzo clenched his teeth.  _ How are you doing this? Answer me. _

 

_ Ain’t me doin’ this nonsense. It’s you and your--your ninja mindtricks or whatever. _

 

_ I have no such tricks,  _ Hanzo growled back.

 

_ Well, neither do I. So. Fuck you very much. _

 

Hanzo leaned his head against the wall, cradling his ribs _. How do you propose we explain this, then? _

 

_ Don’t rightly know, but I’m all for forgetting it happened an’ goin’ our separate ways. _

 

_ Unacceptable,  _ Hanzo demanded. _ We will discover the reason for this affliction. _

 

_ Hey hey, who you callin’ an affliction?  _

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes. It appeared trying to reason with a drugged cowboy was as infuriating as with a sober one.

 

_ Get back here, pendejo! I’ll get outta this bed and clean your goddamn clock. _

 

_ Try it. I could use some entertainment.  _

 

A slew of swear-laden southernisms followed. Hanzo couldn’t be bothered making sense of them. The cowboy’s words slowed and then stopped altogether. Dropped into a narcotic stupor, no doubt. Hanzo stretched out on his cot, careful not to move quickly. The pain had started to abate and he could take full breaths again. 

 

He wished for Genji to appear so they could be done with this. Genji had been spiteful in his youth and Hanzo had no doubt it lived in him yet. His brother in Nepal? Laughable. Cold weight settled in Hanzo’s gut. Genji was toying with him, making Hanzo wait in this silent, barren cell. The beginnings of punishment, he was sure. Forgiveness was not obtained so easily. Hanzo expected more than a pound of flesh to be demanded of him, whether from Genji himself or this fool of a cowboy acting on his brother’s behalf. Perhaps even this Morrison was his brother’s tool and had yet to realize it. 

 

Hanzo closed his eyes. 

 

The least they could do was get on with it.  


End file.
